


A Little Less Conversation

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [14]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunkenness, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hangover, Mild Smut, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Not Canon Compliant, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, One Shot, Out of Character, Pining, Rejection, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: A reader request, in which Geralt does not understand why you are so touchy-feely with him, and accidentally hurts your heart. So you close yourself off to him, which he also does not understand. Communication, it turns out, is pretty important.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 12
Kudos: 313





	A Little Less Conversation

Of _course_ you had a crush on Geralt of Rivia. Honestly, you’d defy any person with a beating heart to not stand before him and feel some kind of stirring. But you’d rather swallow your own tongue than actually confess your feelings.

It wasn’t that he was unkind. Quite the opposite; he was chivalrous, and thoughtful, and put up with your nonsense in his steady, unyielding fashion. You, a bright and bubbly flirt of a woman, were travelling with him out of pure convenience. As a merchant’s daughter, it was your annual job to journey to the sea-side to renew contracts with your dock-workers and sailors. He’d happened upon you on the road, out of your depth in a _conversation_ with three ruffians who had intentions that were less than pure.

After he’d scared them off, you’d caught your breath, and scampered after his horse.

“Sir Witcher!” You grinned, and he regarded you, aloof, “Thank you. Gods, if you’d not come along...”

“Don’t mention it.” He grunted.

“I owe you my life, Sir. Or coin, at the least. I’ve a few things to sell at the next city—”

“I said it’s _fine_.” He rumbled; you cheerfully ignored his barbed disposition.

“—So I’ll walk with you. Uh, if that’s okay. I usually journey alone, but you’re so, y’know,” You frowned, trying to pick the right words.

“Monstrous?” He supplied, monotone.

“I was going to say _brave_ , or _imposing_ , but... whatever floats your boat.” You touched his thigh, and felt him tense beneath you. It was nothing for you to express your fondness with gestures; you had always been the kind of person to hug a hello, or hold a friend’s hands. As you kept step with his horse, you didn’t notice him staring at the place you’d brushed your fingers against. “What is your steed’s name, Sir Witcher? She’s absolutely lovely.”

“Hmm.” He considered, frowning, and then, “Roach.”

“Hello, Roach.” You touched the mare’s neck, and she tugged at her reins, eager to see you front-on. Geralt tried to regain control of her, but she thudded her huge head against your side in a fond nuzzle, making you stumble. You giggled. Puzzled, Geralt urged Roach back into a walk. “Anyway,” You continued, “I’d appreciate the company. I can pay you extra for the escort, Sir Witcher.”

“Geralt.” He offered, lowly, “I am no knight.”

Offering your own name didn’t seem to have an effect on him; he carried on walking. But you noticed that he didn’t urge Roach faster than your legs could keep up, and although he offered little in the way of input when you chatted, you felt like he was listening carefully.

\--------------

After three days, you were smitten.

You admitted this to yourself after Geralt returned from taking care of a nearby threat – a bear, he’d said – and you’d been privy to the delicious reveal of his muscle-bound chest as he stripped his blood-soaked shirt off. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him half-naked, but it had the same effect as the others; your mouth went dry, and other parts went wet.

“You’re all dirty.” You informed him; he cast you a side-long glance, and said nothing. You sighed, and fetched one of the pots from your pack, stooping by the river you’d chosen to camp by. Filling it with the clear water, you returned to the log you were seated upon before, and motioned to the ground. “C’mere. Sit.”

He eyed you like you were a serpent poised to strike, but he approached cautiously anyway. Gracefully, he lowered into a kneel. You wet a rag, and begin to daub the grime and blood from his skin. Beneath your attention, he shivered.

“Sorry, too cold? I can heat—”

“It’s fine.” His baritone was gritty, and you paused, before continuing your wash.

“What do you do when you haven’t got someone to travel with, hm?” You mused, taking care with any raised scars that still looked tender. “Do you just crack loose from your shell of dirt like a butterfly from time to time, when it crusts over?”

He snorted. “Yes.”

“Gross.” You chirped, rinsing the rag. “There, better. Now, let me see to your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” He growled.

“Nothing, ‘cept it’s all knotty.” You pulled your comb out from your pack, dumping the dirty water, and returned to sit. With great care, you began to work through his silvery locks, humming as you loosened the tangles, careful not to tug. Slowly, he relaxed into your touch. When you were done, you gathered up a section away from his crown, and worked it into a small fish-tail braid to keep it away from his face. “There.” You whispered, admiring.

“Hmm?” He questioned, his spine straightening again. Had he dozed off? “Oh. Thanks.”

“Y’welcome.” You smiled, biting your lower lip when he pulled out a fresh cotton shirt from his pack. “No rush to get dressed. View’s _great._ ” The words tumbled out less smooth than you’d have liked, but you gauged his reaction.

He looked confused. “What view?”

“Uh, I,” You felt the heat of embarrassment touch you, and you shook your head. “Hey, do you want rabbit stew again? I think there’s some meat left.”

\--------------

You’d hoped it had been a matter of you being awful at flirting, too subtle, and not a matter of his disinterest. But when you reached a small village, taking a break from camping by renting a room in an inn, he clarified things for you. You dumped your bags in the room, and he turned to the door.

“Enjoy the bed.” He rumbled, and you tilted your head in question.

“I, uh. Where are you going?” You gestured at the large mattress. “There’s enough room for us both.”

“Hmm.” He acknowledged, before turning the doorknob. “There’s a brothel nearby. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The sound of the latch catching felt jarring, as your heart clenched and sunk. Gods, you’d spent over a _week_ touching his knee, and playing with his hair, and kissing him on the cheek when he’d handed you supper. Every time he’d barely reacted, but you’d thought he was being a gentleman. The clear reality was that he didn’t want you – not in the way that you wanted him.

The embarrassment of your actions washed over you, and you had to sit on the edge of the bed, wincing in a cringe. Had you _really_ ‘accidentally’ left your sleep shirt undone that one night? Had you complimented his arms twice – no, _three_ times, when he chopped up wood for the fire? Fuck. _Fuckity fuck._ You covered your face with your hands and moaned, wishing you could evaporate. He _had_ to have understood your interest, free, no strings attached, and –

And now he was happily in the arms of another woman. Someone pretty and more experienced. Someone worthy of his looks and strength.

Self-loathingly, you turned to the jug of wine on the nightstand, ignoring the cup, opting to drink from the vessel instead. It would be another week of walking before you hit the seaside. You thought about sneaking away and using the night to run from your problems, but you knew that travelling alone in the dark was foolish. Plus, you still owed him coin.

You withdrew into the wine, and yourself, miserable.

\--------------

“You,” You slurred at the woman in the mirror, “You’re fuckin’... _beautiful._ Don’t let.. don’ let nobody go and tell you other... things.” Pointing at yourself, you stumbled a bit on the spot. “An’ furthermore, _oop—_ ” You upset the jug of wine, and watched it smash on the ground. Luckily it was empty. “Ah, well, fuck.”

You had passed ‘drunk’ awhile ago, and were now firmly in the realms of ‘plastered’. There had been stages to it; at first you’d cried, and then you’d been angry, and now you were half-dressed, convincing yourself that you were a veritable goddess. Returning your bleary gaze to the mirror, you piled your hair atop your head, holding it with one hand.

“Mmm, yes. Noble. Fine. Of good... stock. A good, a _good soup_ , s’what you are.” The door opened behind you, and your lazy-haze eyes flicked to the form of Geralt, who was regarding you curiously. “ _Eyyy!_ It’s th’man. Welcome home, _honey._ ”

You burst into a fit of giggles at your poor impression of a spouse, because you knew now that he regarded you as something far, _far_ removed from that status. And honestly could you blame him, at that moment? You were a disaster.

“You’re drunk.” He noted, looking at the smashed jar, “Why?”

“Pssfssff.” You waved at him. “ _You’re_ drunk.”

“I am not.” He countered, evenly.

“Why not?” You quarrelled, “S’a good time.”

“You got _this_ drunk for a _good time?_ ” There was something strange about his voice that you couldn’t identify.

“Well, not all of us can afford... a _brothel_ , y’know?” You made a carefree gesture. “They’d prob’bly turn me away, anyway. Ugliest idiot in the continent!” As if advertising a circus, you made a grand gesture.

“What are you talking about?” He growled.

“Oh c’mon, like, like y'don't know.” You stumbled, directly onto a sharp shard of ceramic that sliced your foot. “Ow. Ah, fuck. Ahh, _shit._ ”

He caught you as you hopped, and you tried to fight his grip. “Stop.” He mumbled, “Let me—”

“No, no, s’fine I’m fine s’fine.” You snapped, trying to smack his hands, even as your foot dribbled blood onto the floor. He made a sound of pure exasperation, and dropped you onto the bed. You bounced, once, and watched the ceiling spin.

Faintly, you were aware of him wrapping your injured foot, and the low rumble of his baritone. “Ugly? Out of your _mind_ , maybe, but...” You weren’t privy to the rest, however, because the grip of intoxication pulled you under, into a dreamless sleep.

\--------------

You awoke to the sun trying to murder you, and to a mouth that tasted as if you’d been sucking on an old shoe. Groaning, you reached over to grab the other pillow to put on your face – and hit the prone form of somebody beside you. Wide-eyed, you turned your head, meeting Geralt’s grumpy gaze, your hand directly on his bare chest. As if burned, you flinched your hand back, and shot up to sit.

That was a mistake. The world spun around you and you moaned, breathing through the nausea. You felt something cool press against your hand; Geralt was offering you a glass of water. Carefully you accepted it, and tried to remember the night’s events as you sipped.

Rejection. You recalled _that._ Wine. A lot of wine. Crying, dancing, then... Geralt? His voice. Something breaking. You winced at the throb in your foot, and looked down. Okay, you were injured, but you were fully dressed. If you had thrown yourself at him, he’d denied you, which you were grateful for.

Gods, _had_ you thrown yourself at him, though? _Again?_ You avoided his gaze, which you could feel upon you. “Sorry about... last night.” You whispered.

He hummed. “Looked like you were working something out.”

“Yeah, I, uh,” You drained the glass. “Guess I was.”

“Do you... feel better?” He wondered.

“Oh, absolutely.” You lied, “Out of my system now. One _hundred_ percent. I’ll just take some willow bark and I’ll be ready to hit the ol’ open road!” Could you sound any more moronic? No wonder he found you repugnant.

“If you’re sure.” His voice sounded uncertain.

“ _So_ sure,” You enthused, standing, trying your weight on your sore foot. It wasn’t too bad. “Super sure.”

“Hmm.” He began to rise, and you diverted your gaze, focusing on dressing properly. You’d usually comb his hair out, and fuss over his buttons, but Gods knew you weren’t going to be doing that anymore.

You swore you could feel his eyes upon you the whole time you both readied to leave, but you didn’t dare look.

\--------------

“Are you certain you don’t want to ride Roach for awhile?” Geralt asked, for the second time.

“Absolutely certain!” You had gotten quite good at disguising your limp. “She’s used to you.”

“I don’t mind...” He trailed off, as you shook your head.

“Nope, walking is good for me. Maybe I’ll tone my legs.” Your joke was poor, and you hated the weird register of your voice. You no longer walked close beside him; you kept a respectable distance.

“Nothing wrong with your legs.” He sounded lost, and you snorted.

“Yeah, well. Maybe they’re not the problem. I dunno.” You shrugged, and lapsed into silence. Where there had once been questions and stories and giggles, there was an awkward chasm. He seemed frustrated by it, but you had no idea why. Surely he would be pleased that you were no longer fawning over him?

“Are you... okay?” He finally asked, hours later. Your foot was sore, and your hangover was still gnawing at your brain, but you nodded anyway.

“Yup. Why?”

“You’re quiet.” He noted.

“You’re _always_ quiet.” You defended.

He hummed, and you carried on.

\--------------

At camp, you cooked in silence. You offered him food with a small smile, and ate without conversation. Instead of sitting beside him, you sat opposite, keeping the fire between you. You didn't dare look at him unless you strictly needed to. You felt his golden gaze upon you, but you suspected he was frightened that you’d lapse into another bout of peculiar behaviour.

When he laid out his bedroll, you chose a spot away from his to lay your own. He frowned.

“Haven’t you been saying it’s safer if we sleep closer?” He asked.

“Yes, well, I’ve yet to be eaten by a monster in the night.” You pointed out, “It’s uh, softer on the ground, here.”

“Oh.” He grunted, “I’ll move closer—”

“No!” You rushed, and then looked at your feet. “No, you’re fine.”

The fire popped, the crackle the only sound for a long moment. And then he spoke. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Gods, that was the _last_ thing you wanted to do. “I’m just tired.” You lied, settling down, rolling away from him onto your side. “Wine catching up, I guess.”

He hummed, but you knew he wasn’t buying it. Squeezing your eyes closed, you drew your knees up to your chest. Only six more days.

\--------------

By day three, his hair was a disaster. You knew he took some kind of care of it before you’d come along, but it seemed like he was purposefully rocking a bird’s nest on his head now, and you were clueless as to why. He continued to be quiet, considerate, still offering the use of Roach. You continued to pretend that you weren’t the biggest idiot alive, with the most painful one-sided crush in the world.

You also _tried_ to pretend that your foot wasn’t getting worse, but unfortunately for you, he had the Witcher advantage.

“You have an infection.” He mumbled at the camp that night, “I can smell it.”

 _Great,_ you thought. You were ugly, and you _also_ stunk. “Sorry.” You muttered, “It’s red and sore but I didn’t know it smelled bad. I’ll put my boots back—”

“No.” He frowned, “I have... a heightened sense of smell. It doesn’t smell bad, but I know it’s there.”

“Ah.” You said, stupidly. Looking at the bandage covering your foot, you bit your lip. “Guess I’ll go wash it.”

“No,” He sighed, “You need a poultice. May I... look at it?”

You caught his gaze, then, and were startled to see him so contrite. He was going to look after _your_ gross foot, and he was the one looking sorry? Caught off guard, you simply nodded your consent.

He picked up a bag, and knelt at your feet. With great care, he peeled the bloodied bandage away, and you held your breath at the sting. When he saw the raw, weeping wound, he looked up sharply, his precious eyes ablaze.

“You’ve been _walking_ on this the _whole time?_ ” He accused; he was livid.

“I didn’t want to be a bother...” Your voice was small. Why did he care?

“What if you’d gone septic and died?” He thundered. Oh, right. Then he’d have to deal with your corpse.

“Well, I guess you’d inherit the contents of my pack.” You joked, lamely. He glowered.

“Not _funny._ ” Carefully, he dabbed something onto the wound that made you hiss, before a pleasant numbness took over. Then he began to properly clean it. “You’re riding Roach tomorrow.”

“But—”

“I’m not asking you, I’m _telling_ you.” He snarled. Mutely, you nodded. He worked diligently; it was far too late for stitching without making new edges, something that would require a clean blade, so he packed herbs against the flesh and wrapped it with clean gauze.

“I’m terribly sorry.” You whispered, “First I offend you with my attention, and now I’ll be robbing you of your horse. I never intended to be such a poor travel companion.”

“You offended me...?” He asked, deadpan.

You ignored the question, not wishing to linger. “I’ll double the escort fee in town. For your troubles. I hope that will suffice as a decent apology.”

But he wasn’t willing to let it go that easily. “How have you offended me?”

You flushed, and picked at your fingernails. “The first week. I was... _well._ Come on.” He stared blankly, and you frowned. “Geralt, _don’t_ make me say it, please.”

“Say what?” He looked genuinely lost.

The heat swelled at your skin, and you fidgeted with sleeve of your shirt. “The way I... _acted_. Flirting and touching and—Gods, I _know_ you’re not interested. I know that _now._ I wish you’d rebuffed me sooner, but...”

“Not interested?” He parroted, all wide eyes.

“In... _me_. You know.” You hid your face in your hands. Was it possible to die from mortification? “When we were last in town, and you... chose the brothel over my, uh. Company.” It was silent, and you wanted to peek at him, but you were terrified of the pity you thought you’d see on his face. “Just... look. It’s okay. I _get it_ now, and—”

“You _liked_ me?” He breathed in a rush, and then you _had_ to look at him, because you were stunned. His expression matched your own.

“Geralt, this is a very cruel game to play.” You warned him, your voice trembling.

“I—I thought...” He looked up at you, capturing your gaze, and you felt tears prick at your eyes, shame curling deep in your chest. “I just thought you _pitied_ me.”

That made you straighten your spine, your jaw hanging slack. “ _What?_ ” You barked.

“The... the hair brushing, and... the cooking, and the... touches. The washing. And when... you tucked against me at night. I liked it, a lot. But I _know_ what I am, I know what I must look like to you... I never wanted to presume...”

“Geralt.” You breathed, “Do you honestly think I just... braid _anyone’s_ hair? Or ask to borrow _anyone’s_ shirt? Or that I’d do those things out of guilt, or pity?”

“Do _you_ honestly think I’d consider you the ugliest idiot in the continent?” He shot back; you vaguely remembered your drunk words. “You’re gorgeous. I’m a fucking _mutant_.”

For a moment, you just stared. And then you began to laugh. It started low in your belly, a flutter of giggles, until you were bent-double, tears in your eyes, struggling to breathe. So much stupidly wasted time. So much self-flagellation. He regarded you like a puppy locked behind a gate, unable to follow. When you recovered, you wiped your eyes. “Fuck,” You wheezed, “You’re absolutely _stunning,_ Geralt, but you’re thicker than two planks of wood.”

“What—” He began to retort, but you shut him up, pressing your lips to his. He froze for half-a-second, before he hungrily accepted the embrace, grabbing you up greedily with his huge hands, pulling you into his lap. Your kiss was warm and tender and playful and all of the things it should have been many days ago, but you made up for it now. He moaned into your mouth and you shivered, pressing against his disciplined body, parting from him with a suckle on his lower lip. Between you, you could feel _exactly_ how interested he was.

“We have three days ‘til we hit town,” You purred, “But _then_ I’d also like two weeks to catch up on all the things I’ve been wanting to do to you, please.”

He smiled for the first time; it was a darling glint, easing his angular features. “Okay,” He agreed, “But only if you take back the thing about the wood.”

“ _Make_ me.”

His growl rattled up the length of his chest as he bent down to capture your mouth again, and that night, you truly learnt that what he lacked in emotional intelligence, he made up for in other areas.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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